


we pick ourselves undone

by scarletwords



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1310938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletwords/pseuds/scarletwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What are the rules?” </p>
<p>It laughs again, and if Stiles has to keep listening to that sound come out of his mouth (not his mouth), he’s going to punch himself in the face. </p>
<p>“You’ll figure them out as we go.” </p>
<p>(In which Stiles does more while he's possessed than just play a demon in a game of Go.) Spoilers up to 3x22.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we pick ourselves undone

**Author's Note:**

> My knowledge of Go is minimal, very minimal, and I’m assuming (probably incorrectly) that Stiles’s is too. So apologies for not going into more detail with the game, and if anything I said is blatantly wrong, feel free to correct me! 
> 
> Dialogue is taken from 1x01, 1x12, 2x04, 2x09, 2x11, and 3x06. Lots of other episodes are referenced, so massive spoilers for the whole show up in here, leading up to the end of 3x22. 
> 
> Warnings for mentions of attempted suicide, panic attacks, and drowning.

Whatever his teachers at school may say about his ability to pay attention in class, they always comment on Stiles’s talent for making connections. He remembers things, sees how they relate, sees the pieces of red string that connect all of the unanswered questions on a map. So when he’s sitting in the recesses of his own mind, trying to figure out where that damn door (or jar or _whatever_ ) is so he can slam it shut, he tries to think of something to compare it all to.

This whole trickster spirit possession thing? It’s a lot like drowning.

Stiles, for one, is not surprised. With all the time he’s spent under water or treading it, metaphorically and physically, it was only a matter of time before he forgot what “breathing easy” meant.

 

“That’s the best part: they only found _half_. We’re going.”

Scott complains the whole drive over, but he’s also fidgeting with his sleeves and turning his inhaler over in his hands. He’s nervous, and Scott would never admit to it, but Stiles knows that he’s at least a little excited. After all, how many times are they going to get the chance to look for a dead body in the woods?

He slows the Jeep to a crawl, puts it in park, pushes Scott’s shoulder a little. “Come on, before my dad gets to it first.”

He pushes the door open, but Scott grabs the back of the jacket and keeps him from jumping out.

“What the hell, man-“

“Your _dad_ ’s out there?” Scott’s eyes shift back and forth, looking between Stiles and the woods. He looks like he’s about to hide under the seats.

“Uh, couple of joggers find half a body in the woods in _Beacon Hills_? The town where the last ‘illegal’ thing that happened was when Kyle McKinley got caught dealing pot in the locker room? Duh, the sheriff’s out there!” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Come on, we’ll be fine.”

_Wait._

He hears an overly dramatic exhale before Scott gets out of the passenger side.

“Are we seriously doing this?”

_This isn’t…._

“You’re the one who was bitching that nothing ever happens in this town!” Stiles laughs, flicks on the flashlight. He taps Scott on the shoulder again and walks under the chains, ignores the preserve’s “Keep Out” sign he knows is there.

_This doesn’t make any sense._

“I was trying to get a good night sleep before practice tomorrow.”

“ _Right_ , because sitting on the bench is such a grueling effort.”

_This isn’t real._

Stiles stops. He’s tense all of a sudden and doesn’t know why. The woods are dark with barely a hint of moonlight, and there’s half a _body_ out here somewhere, but there’s some other threat. Something’s wrong. It’s pulling at him, pulling him back towards the Jeep. Something’s wrong. They shouldn’t be here.

“Scott, wait,” he mumbles, and it doesn’t sound right, why doesn’t that sound right? His voice sounds fuzzier than it did before, like static on a radio.

Scott pushes past him, acts like he hadn’t stopped or said anything at all. “No,” he says, replying to the sarcastic comment that Stiles barely even remembers making. “Because I’m playing this year. In fact, I’m making first line.”

_“Hey, that’s the spirit,”_ is what he should say, wants to say, but the words don’t come out. Scott keeps walking, talking to a ghost.

_This isn’t real._

Something in his brain finally clicks back into working order and _Laura_. Laura Hale. They’re out in the woods looking for the other half of Laura _freaking_ Hale’s body. Which means Peter’s out there. Which means Scott is about to be-

“Scott, wait!” he shouts, or tries to, but the words come out muffled again, like he’s not really saying them. Like he’s not really there.

_This is a memory._

One he’s already relived, at that. His supernatural hallucinations could learn to be a little more creative.

Something behind him growls.

_You’re kidding me._

He turns around, slowly, both hands tightly gripping the flashlight. He considers calling for Scott, but he’s long gone. Besides, this isn’t real. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter, because it _isn’t real_.

The beam falls on a paw, thick claws tearing into the ground. Stiles swallows and lifts the flashlight up monstrous arms attached to something twice his size, eyes glowing red, its breath like steam in the cold air, surrounding its teeth. Lots of teeth. Wolf teeth. Werewolf teeth.

He’d forgotten how ridiculously nightmarish Peter’s alpha form used to be. If Scott ever looked like that, they’d be sitting down with Deaton for a serious body image talk.

Peter’s staring at him. _But it doesn’t matter right? Because this isn’t real, this is a memory or a nightmare or something._

Peter howls. Stiles runs.

Part of him wants to follow Scott’s tracks, make it up towards the group of policemen he knows is there so Peter will run and not risk being caught. But that’s ridiculous because Scott isn’t there, and his dad isn’t there because _this isn’t real_. (So why is he running anyway?)

Instead, he circles back, weaving between the trees until he makes it to his Jeep. He turns around as he grabs the door handle because he’s an _idiot_ , and Peter’s running on all fours, his mouth open wide so he can—

“Nope!” he shouts. Stiles throws the door open, climbs in as fast he can, his foot slipping on the leaves beneath him, slamming the door shut.

“Do you wish it was you?”

_This…. this is not the inside of my Jeep,_ Stiles thinks with a mix of relief and resignation. Instead of the dark, familiar interior of his beloved car, it’s the gigantic, white linoleum-covered basement-warehouse-whatever that his subconscious houses that godforsaken Nemeton tree stump in.

“Do I what?” he replies, turning around.

The room is mostly empty, as usual. Fluorescent lights cover the ceiling, and he can practically see his reflection in the floor. There’s nothing there except him and the stump.

Oh, and the bandage-covered figure sitting on the stump.

_How did he lose control again?_

It doesn’t look at him. Instead, it’s focused on a board laid out in front of it, small, white and black stones spread across in a seemingly random pattern. He’s seen the game before: Go.

“I’m more of a chess guy, myself,” he mumbles. It, the nogitsune, turns to him and Stiles tenses.

“Do you wish it had been _you_ the alpha bit?” it asks. Its voice is less raspy and death-like here. It sounds more human.

“What, and miss out on opportunities like this? Never,” he answers smoothly, but he knows (from experience) that his heartbeat picked up. He stands across from the demon, but doesn’t sit down on the stump. Not yet.

His memories of what happened in Eichen House flood back into his thoughts and he holds back a groan. He was so close to being in control and now it’s _gone_.

“Think of all the pain you could have avoided, being like your friends,” it continues. “You could protect yourself. You wouldn’t be a target. You would be _special_.”

The voice sounds more human because it’s Stiles’s voice. Or close to it, at least. Like how Stiles might sound if he was mimicking someone monstrous and untrustworthy. Peter, for example.

“I would be foaming at the mouth every full moon, attacking my friends and being hunted by the Argents,” Stiles lists, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been through this before. I don’t want the bite.”

It pauses in placing a black stone on the board and looks up at him, seemingly unseeing. It tilts its head and suddenly Stiles feels dizzy. His vision blurs.

 

“So you’re not gonna kill me?”

Peter hesitates, almost in the car. (What an _idiot_ , what kind of question was that? He was practically _asking_ to be murdered.) Peter turns, walks slowly towards him, narrowing his eyes contemplatively.

Stiles takes a step back. “Oh, god,” he mutters. _This is it._

“Don’t you understand yet?” Peter asks, looking not _too_ murderous, which is a very, very, very good sign. “I’m not the bad guy here.”

_Woah, woah, woah, wait. Something’s not right again._

He’s saying something in response, something about how, uh, yeah, Peter is the bad guy here, but something’s off. This is familiar, but wrong. Why is he here?

“Do you want the bite?” Peter almost sounds friendly, like he’s asking Stiles if he wants to go see a movie later instead of offering to make him a supernatural creature.

He shakes off the weird feeling and focuses. “What?”

“Do you _want_ the _bite_?”  Peter repeats, but now he sounds more like he thinks Stiles is twelve. “If it doesn’t kill you, and it could, you’d become like us.”

“Like you…”

“Yes, a werewolf. Would you like me to draw you a picture?”

_Nope_ , his brain pesters him. _Get it together something’s wrong. Why. Are. You. Here?_

“That first night in the woods, I took Scott because I needed a new pack. It could’ve easily been you.”

_Ignore Peter. You shouldn’t be here, this already happened, this is a memory._

_Why is he reliving this?_

“Yes or no?” Peter is grabbing his arm, his fangs dangerously close to Stiles’s wrist.

The nogitsune. It was asking him if he wished it had been him. If he wished that Peter had bit him instead of Scott. How did it trigger this though? Why is it—

_It’s in my head. It’s controlling me._

He pulls his wrist back, and Peter raises an eyebrow. He remembers the fear, the tension, the aggression. The anxiety for Lydia, for Scott. For himself.

“I don’t want to be like you,” he says. And he means it because Peter is a murderer and a psychopath and he’s caused them all too much trouble.

How does he get out of this?

“Do you know what I heard just now?” Peter grins, and it makes his pulse jump even now. “Your heart beating slightly faster over the words ‘I. Don’t. Want.’.”

_Get out of this._

Stiles turns and walks, knows that this isn’t the memory, but also knows that he can change it, manipulate it like he did in the woods. He waits for Peter to keep talking behind him, or to leave, but he doesn’t hear anything.  
  
He can’t help himself: Stiles turns and looks. Peter’s still standing there, but his fangs are back out, and his eyes change to red. He leaps forward, grabs Stiles’s wrist and—

Stiles screams himself back to the nemeton.

“Interesting,” the nogitsune says, monotone, placing another stone on the board.

“Get out of my head,” Stiles spits, rubbing his wrist, pulling back his sleeve to check for nonexistent bite marks.

_Not real, nothing’s real, none of it’s real._

“ _Real,_ Stiles?” it laughs, looking up at him again. If it can hear his thoughts too (which, of course it can, it’s in his goddamn head), then this is going to be difficult.

“I’m the only thing that’s real here.”

“What do you want?” Stiles asks, trying (failing) to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Memories? Shouldn’t you be causing…strife or chaos or whatever in town? If you want a run-down of my life post-werewolves, I’d love to have a chat with you somewhere _else_.”

It rises, brushing the stones away to clear the board. Stiles blinks and the nogitsune’s in front of him, making him flail his arms and stumble back. The bandages are replaced with his own face, staring back at him with a confident smirk that looks misplaced on him.

“Who says we can’t do both, Stiles?” Its mouth, his own mouth, splits into a wide grin. “I can play in town with your friends, _and_ find out more about them, and you, at the same time.”

Stiles tries to breathe evenly, but he gives himself away by looking wildly around the room.  
  
 _When is a door not a door?_

“No trick here, Stiles,” it laughs. “No door, either. This is your mind, and I like you just where you are.”

_Find the door. You’ve just got to find the door._

Trick or no trick, the door definitely isn’t in this room.

“How do you play?” Stiles asks. It raises its eyebrows (his eyebrows, _not_ his eyebrows) at him until he points to the board, stones scattered across the top of the stump. “Go, is it like chess?”

“The idea is similar, and yet not,” it allows (the thing rivals Deaton in its explanations). “They are both games of strategy. It has few rules, and yet it is far more complex than chess, and more challenging, one might say.”

Stiles sighs. “Well, I’m obviously not doing anything. Let’s play a game.”

Not-Stiles smiles and gestures to the board. They each sit on a different side of the nemeton (Stiles feels like he’s defiling something by doing that, but hell, it’s his head, he can do what he wants). It separates the white and black stones and pushes the white towards Stiles.

“Bit stereotypical, huh?” Stiles mutters and his counterpart laughs ( _that_ , at least, doesn’t sound like his laugh).

“I appreciate tradition.”

Stiles sighs. This is useless, and yet very intentional. The nogitsune has some sort of plan. And who knows what he’s doing with Stiles’s body. If he can win the game….

“What are the rules?”

It laughs again, and if Stiles has to keep listening to that sound come out of his mouth ( _not_ his mouth), he’s going to punch himself in the face.

“You’ll figure them out as we go.”

 

“Can you get me out of here before I _drown_?”

Stiles briefly considers how satisfying it would be to let go of Derek for a second to remind him just who it is _keeping him alive_ at the moment. Not that he would do that, for two reasons. One, he’d like to think that if the positions were reversed, Derek might do the same thing for him (he’d _like_ to think that, but it’s usually not that simple). And two, Derek’s going to get his motor functions back eventually and Stiles does not want to be on his bad side when that happens.

Still, he could do without the aggressive whining.

“You’re worried about drowning?” Stiles asks incredulously. “Did you notice the thing out there with multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth?”

“Did you notice that I’m paralyzed from the neck down in eight feet of water!?”

Ah, well, he has a point.

“ _Okay_.” He spits the taste of chlorine out of his mouth and takes a deep breath. He’s getting sick of swimming too, but at least Stiles _can_ swim.  

He inhales again and looks around as much as he can without having to drag Derek along with him. The lighting around the pool is dim, but it reflects off the water, leaving an eerie almost blue light on the surrounding walls. Perfect lighting to try and find a gigantic lizard in, naturally. There are shadows everywhere. He waits for one of them to leap out at them. 

“I don’t see it,” he decides. Which could be a good or bad thing. Probably a bad thing. Either way, they’re not making any progress treading water in the pool.

He makes a pathetic attempt to swim to the edge. It works, but with one arm and a lot of extra weight, it’s slow-going. He’s almost there---

“Wait wait wait wait, stop stop!” Derek orders and Stiles halts, kicking his feet beneath him. He follows Derek’s eyes and finally sees the shadow slinking along the wall, attached to the monster crawling along the edges of the pool. It’s like it’s…pacing. Holding off. It hisses at them but doesn’t approach.

_We’re right here_ , Stiles thinks. _We’re not a threat. Why stay back?_

“What’s it waiting for?” he asks. Derek doesn’t answer.

_The kanima’s afraid of water. Because Matt’s afraid of water._

He breathes in a little too fast and ends up swallowing pool water. He takes a moment to cough and spit it out, still pulling Derek next to him. 

_Not real, not real._

“What’s going to happen, is Jackson going to jump in anyway and eat me?” he mutters bitterly. Something’s got to happen. This memory isn’t exactly a pleasant one, but aside from being pretty exhausted by the end of it, he and Derek ended up just fine. So something’s bound to be different…

Derek ignores his comment (naturally). He does, however, suddenly get much, much heavier.

_No no no!_

Stiles tries to swim to the edge, the kanima hissing as they get closer, but he can’t make it. He isn’t strong enough and Derek slips through his arm, sinking fast. Stiles thrashes out, splashing the water around him and trying to breathe.

_It doesn’t matter. Derek isn’t drowning because this is a memory and it isn’t real and Derek’s out there somewhere doing who knows what but he’s not sinking at the bottom of a pool because this. isn’t. real._

He hears the thump as Derek’s body hits the bottom. Then it’s just the sound of his breathing and the water moving around him.

“Fuck this,” he moans tiredly before he dives down.

His arms are more tired than he thought, but he reaches the bottom and tries to pick Derek up by his armpits. Except either Derek’s been eating a few too many curly fries or Stiles really needs to work on his deadlift at the gym because now he can’t pick up Derek’s weight at all. He pulls, tries to push off the bottom of the pool for leverage, but Derek isn’t budging. A bubble of air escapes through his lips. Derek’s eyes are closed.

_Come on, come on!_

He pulls at the werewolf’s arms, chest, even slaps him to try and get him to wake up, all with no effect. His head is feeling lighter while his lungs are bursting.

_Not real, you’re fine, Derek’s fine._

But his lungs are on fire and his head’s exploding and after all the shit he’s been through, he’s not going to drown at the bottom of the high school swimming pool in a hallucination.

“Let me out!” he screams, but it comes out garbled. His mouth fills with water and he closes his eyes.

“Did Derek thank you for that?”

Stiles inhales first, clear air coursing through his lungs. He doesn’t want to open his eyes. He wants to wake up for real, rent out an excavator, and dig up this frigging nemeton.

“What about Scott? Did he apologize for having dinner with his girlfriend instead of answering your call?”

“Ex-girlfriend,” he corrects automatically. It chuckles.

He opens his eyes, slowly, and it takes him a moment to adjust to the white light. Maybe this is what limbo is, Stiles thinks. Trapped in some weird space reliving your life while you play a Japanese board game with a demon.

Actually, that’s probably just him.

“What are you doing with them? With Derek and Scott?” Stiles asks. He places a white stone on the board and takes one of the nogitsune’s black ones off in turn. It raises an eyebrow at him.

“Very good, you’re improving.” It places its own piece down. “And I am doing nothing. They take care of everything themselves.”

Stiles doesn’t clench his fists, doesn’t bite down on his lip, doesn’t narrow his eyes. He just exhales slowly.

“Why were Jackson and Kate still on your chessboard?”

Stiles tenses. It hasn’t been through any of those memories. Which means it’s been in his room.

It’s been in his house.

“You left them on the board, but kept yourself and Lydia off of it?” it continues pleasantly. It’s curious more than accusatory. “Why?”

“I didn’t know what Lydia was when I made the board,” he explains, because it’s better than saying nothing and wondering what it’s doing in his room instead. “And I needed to make Jackson and Kate pieces to explain to my Dad about the deaths they caused in town. It was relevant.”

“And you, Stiles?”

He tries to smile ironically, but he guesses that it looks more like a grimace, like he’s in pain. He places a piece on the board. “I’m nothing.”

It looks back up at him, smiles sympathetically (and he’s not looking at his own face, nope, definitely not).

“Not being anything is not the same as being nothing,” it corrects. Something inside Stiles twists. It’s mocking him.

He straightens. “I don’t need the demon possessing my body to make me feel better about myself,” Stiles snaps. “And can you put your bandage-mask-thing back on?”  
  
It laughs, the darker, harsher laugh that isn’t his (can’t be his). “Can’t look at yourself, Stiles?”  


He doesn’t answer that.

 

Somebody screams and he turns to check instinctively, but the scream turns into a laugh. It’s just a girl, some freshman, pushing jokingly at one of the lacrosse guys. Typical, he thinks, then feels guilty for being jealous. That’s probably just the punch talking. Probably.

Someone he doesn’t recognize pushes past him, and a girl from Econ spills punch on his shoes. It doesn’t matter after all that Lydia’s the town “wackjob”. Everyone still showed up at her birthday party eventually.

He just needs another glass of punch, that’s all. The crowd has tripled since the last time they were outside, faces he does and doesn’t recognize illuminated by the strings of lights reflecting off the pool (and that’s familiar, why is that familiar?).

Scott’s holding a glass too (didn’t he say he wasn’t going to drink?), but he looks distracted, tense. Not something he’d get from having a buzz (werewolves can’t get wasted, not that Scott was doing that pre-“the bite” anyway), but it could be an effect from the full moon that they’ve been trying to ignore.

“You feeling okay?” he asks. He really doesn’t need a crazy werewolf in this night’s already dangerous mix. He doesn’t know where Jackson went, or Allison for that matter, but they’d better figure it out soon.

Scott sighs. “It’s not the moon, it’s…different,” he answers. Because that’s reassuring and not cryptic.

“Why am I wearing _black_? What are you an idiot?!” His dad’s voice jars him and he stops, turning to search the crowd. Why would his dad be here?

“I just came from a funeral, you know people wear _black_ at funerals!” His dad is shouting, shoves some kid away from him and stumbles back. There’s a bottle in his hand, less than half full.

_I don’t want to be here._

This isn’t a dangerous memory. Hell, he’s _hallucinating a hallucination_. Lydia spiked the punch with wolfsbane. His dad isn’t here right now. _He_ isn’t here right now.

“Very funny,” Stiles shouts, knowing that it’s listening. Watching. “I’d think memories of things that actually happened might be a little more informative though!”

The music stops and the crowd is murmuring around him. Everything is unnaturally still and it makes Stiles want to punch something. Or run. Or both. The sheriff takes a step forward, eyes unfocused but somehow still locked on Stiles.

“It’s you. It’s all you,” he says, and his words are clear as he throws the bottle around, gesturing wildly. He’s drunk, but his words are clear. “You know, everyday, I saw her lying in that hospital slowly dying—“

_His dad is sober, at home or at the station or somewhere else, working on a case or dealing with Agent Dickhead McCall or maybe even trying to help Scott deal with his possessed son, but he is not here._

“—I thought ‘how the hell am I supposed to raise this stupid kid on my own? This hyperactive little bastard who keeps ruining my life?!’”

_His dad got his job back, he knows about the werewolves, knows why Stiles has been sneaking around and keeping secrets and they’re fine now, they’re fine._

“It’s all you. It’s you, _Stiles_. You killed your mother.”

_This is his hallucination, this is a memory of a fucking hallucination, and his dad never said that and he needs to wake up. He needs to find a door. He needs to get out of his own head and do something._

“You hear me? You killed her. And now you’re killing _me_.”

The sheriff throws the bottle. This time, Stiles lets it hit him.

He comes to gasping, his hand shaking on the Go piece still between his fingers.

“I wouldn’t want to look at me either, Stiles,” the nogitsune whispers.

“You shut up!” he yells, stands up off the nemeton and starts pacing back and forth, breathing in and out. He rubs at his eyes until they feel raw, but dry.

No wonder all of the psychiatrists, therapists, and counselors he’s seen have had such a hard time figuring him out—his head is a _mess_.

 

Time passes, but Stiles doesn’t know how much. His watch has stopped (typical), and the nogitsune refuses to give him any answers (also typical).

“Just let me _see_ what you’re doing,” Stiles pleads again, tossing a stone up into the air and catching it in his hand. It’s the nogitsune’s turn to make a move, but he just sits and watches Stiles instead.

At least it isn’t wearing his face anymore. The bandages are back, and Stiles considers asking about them instead, learning through redirection, but part of him thinks he doesn’t want to know what made the body he and Malia found in the Eichen House basement. He doesn’t want to know if it’ll happen to him too.

“I don’t think so,” it drawls (still using a shadow of his own voice, a reminder Stiles doesn’t need right now). “Having you wonder is much more entertaining.”

It finally puts the piece down, but Stiles is getting sick of the game. And there are other things that are bothering him.

“Why not Scott? Or Allison?”

It pauses, turns its head up to him. “When is a door not a door?”

_Jesus Christ._

“If I get asked that damn question one more time—“

“When it’s ajar. You opened the door, Stiles.” The edges of its mouth curl up beneath the bandages. It leans forward until Stiles can feel its breath. He resists the urge to turn away. “I could _smell_ the pain on you before I even saw you.”

Stiles does lean back then, places a stone on the board without thinking. He wants to argue, but the nogitsune’s already seen too much of him by now to buy any argument he could give.

The memories it picks are scattered, but most are within the past year, after Scott was bitten. He’s relived fights with werewolves and the kanima, been locked in the high school with Peter, held Lydia while she bled scarlet on the lacrosse field, been dragged off the same field weeks later by Gerard’s goons to be taken back to the Argent house. It takes him less time now to realize it’s a memory, but more time to wake himself up.  
  
He’s getting tired.

“Did you think I picked you because I believed you were weak?” it continues, considering the board.

“More like wondering why you picked me despite that,” Stiles corrects. It doesn’t laugh, for once, even stays silent until the stillness makes him feel claustrophobic. He wants out of this room.

It places a piece down and takes another one of Stiles’s off the board. It holds it in its hands for a moment, rubs it between its fingers.

“If you were so weak, Stiles, your friends wouldn’t be trying so hard to avoid killing you,” it decides. “It’s very useful, actually.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t try to figure out the logic of how that means he isn’t weak.

Part of him, the sensible part of him that he’s trying to ignore, wants to remind it to feed him. How long has it been since he lost control? It can’t have been that long if he’s still alive (his friends haven’t killed him yet). But it’s probably been long enough, and he hasn’t slept in weeks. Somehow, Stiles doubts that the nogitsune’s priorities include making sure his body is getting a hamburger, some water, his Adderall pills and a solid eight hours of sleep. Eventually, he’s going to shut down.

But…maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe magic and demonic energy isn’t enough to keep his human body going forever. Maybe he’ll crash.

Maybe he won’t be quite as capable of hurting his friends.

So Stiles says nothing. He waits. He plays the game.

 

It’s the smell of gasoline that does it. He’s had too many sleepless hours after their stay at the motel with the stench of gasoline feeling like it was soaking him through, staining his hair, his skin, his veins. He smells it before he sees Scott dripping in it, the flare crackling dangerously in his hand.

Stiles might know this is fake, but then, it never did feel real in the first place.

“There’s no hope,” Scott declares, his eyes staring blindly past all of them. Stiles knows Scott doesn’t see the three of them or the bus behind them. He’s seeing Derek dead, Erica dead, everyone they haven’t saved.

Stiles knows because he sees them too most days.

Allison tries to talk Scott down, to make him see sense, but he knows it won’t work. Scott is long past the point of seeing sense. He can see her shudder, knows without looking that Allison is failing to hold back tears.

“Scott, listen to me, okay?” he starts, struggling to make the words come out, even though he’s said them before. “This isn’t you. This is someone inside your head telling you to do this.” (He almost wants to laugh.) “Okay? Now you should just-”

“What if it is just me?” Scott interrupts, (and isn’t that the question of the week?) “What if doing this is actually the best thing that I can do for everyone else?”

He fights the urge to laugh again because the idea of this town without Scott (of Stiles without Scott) is ridiculous. The idea of any of them making it a week without him is laughable and everyone knows it but Scott. The alphas knew it, Deaton knows it, Stiles is reminded of it in half of these goddamn memories.

“Maybe I should just be no one again. No one at all.”

Scott stopped being no one a long time ago.

“Scott, just listen to me okay?” he says, slowly, and his eyes are wet. He’s upset, but he’s also mad, because of all the things that the frigging demon in his head doesn’t deserve to see, this is in easily in the top three.  He takes a step forward.

“You’re not no one. Okay? You’re someone. Scott, you’re my best friend. Okay? And I need you.” He takes a deep breath, wants to turn away and sob, but he holds Scott’s eyes and ignores the tightening in his chest. “Scott, you’re my _brother_. “

Scott watches him carefully, but he’s quiet.

“Alright, so…” Stiles takes a step forward and Lydia inhales sharply behind him. “If you’re gonna do this, then—” He grabs the flare and it makes his shaking hand steady. “You’re just gonna have to take me with you then.”

Scott whimpers (Stiles’s stomach tightens further), and his grip on the flare relaxes enough for Stiles to grab it with his other hand.

He holds it for a second too long.

Scott’s eyes flash and he takes the flare back too quickly for Stiles to stop him.

“Scott—”

But Scott isn’t listening to him. He almost looks at him with sympathy. The same mocking sympathy that he saw on the nogitsune.

Scott pushes him, hard, and he lands on the ground, just outside of the puddle. He scrambles to stand up, scuffs his palms on the asphalt, but Scott’s already dropped the flare.

“Scott, NO—”

The girls scream behind him (or maybe that’s only him) and then suddenly stop.

“Oh, Stiles, this is too easy,” it says softly. “You knew that one was fake the entire time!”

He’s going to throw up.

Stiles steps off the nemeton, looks around wildly. There’s a way out of this room. He’s going to wake up, he can wake up, he can

_wake_

_up._

He runs to one of the walls, bangs his fists against it until his knuckles are red, runs backwards, then throws himself at the wall until his head is ringing and his breath comes in sharp gasps.

“Are you going to have a panic attack, Stiles?”

He thinks of Lydia, kissing him. Scott making him count fingers in the locker room. His dad sitting with him when he was nine, calmly telling him stories about his grandparents, about a new rookie cop, retelling the plot of the first Star Wars movie to him so he has something to focus on.

The sound of his own heartbeat throbbing in his ears lessens and his breathing evens out. “No,” he answers, and it’s true.

“Good.”

He frowns and rubs his hand along the wall. There are no cracks, no seams. No door handles. Nothing for him to hold onto.

“There is no door, Stiles.”

_When is a door not a door?_

He frowns and turns around. “It’s here somewhere,” he says, but he goes back to the nemeton and picks up a Go piece. He sits and breathes, resists the urge to rub his hands over his face. He’s tired of looking weak.

The nogitsune looks at him for a moment, then looks down towards the board. He points a bandaged finger at one of Stiles’s pieces. It has three black pieces touching it.

“You see this stone?” it asks. “It is in _atari_.”

“Right, I’m about to lose it” Stiles adds, puzzled. They’ve been playing long enough for him to understand that much.

“You have only one chance to save the piece before I capture it,” it explains anyway. “In chess, the closest thing is being in ‘check’.”

“Just for that piece though. Not for the whole game.”

“Correct. There is no ‘checkmate’. The game ends when neither player has any more profitable moves to make. Or when one forfeits.”

Stiles nods. He places his piece in the one remaining spot next to the stone in _atari_ , saving it.  
  
No more panic attacks. No forfeiting.

“Your move.”

 

Stiles drags himself through the police station and watches Matt knock his dad unconscious.

Melissa uncovers Heather’s body in the morgue.

The twins drop Boyd onto Derek’s claws.

His mom flatlines in a hospital room.

Sometimes the memories repeat themselves. Gerard beats him senseless in the Argent’s basement twice. He sees Jennifer take his Dad from the school three times. Scott breaks through his handcuffs, growls at Stiles, tries to kill Stiles again and again.

“You’re playing with me,” Stiles realizes.

It looks down at the board. “That wasn’t clear?”

“Not Go,” Stiles corrects.  “The memories. You knew everything you needed to know the second you opened that frigging door or whatever. You’re just playing with me, keeping me distracted.” _Feeding on his pain._

It smiles. “Again...that wasn’t clear?”

 

Being in Morrell’s office when he opens his eyes isn’t quite as comforting as he’d like it to be, but at least he isn’t watching his dad drink himself into a stupor again (for the fourth time actually, but he’s not counting, really). At least it gives him some time to think and breathe and just remember when there was a time that he wasn’t anything, was just the victim sent to the guidance counselor’s office after Matt’s death.

“You know when you’re drowning, you don’t actually inhale until right before you black out. It’s called voluntary apnea.”

Stiles can relate. Because when he was trying to stay awake, trying to keep control, trying to stay himself, it was a lot like being underwater and holding his breath, hoping that he could reach the surface in time. Now he’s just waiting for someone (Scott, Derek, Lydia, Dad), to pull him up (like always).

“It’s like no matter how much you’re freaking out, the instinct to not let any water in is so strong that you won’t open your mouth until you feel like your head’s exploding.”

Well, maybe it’s not exactly like drowning. Because Stiles can hold his breath all he wants (once nearly passed out doing that exact thing, but he beat Scott, so it was worth it), but water still manages to slip in in the form of nightmares, hallucinations, blackouts.

In other words, he’s not strong enough.

“Then when you finally do let it in, that’s when it stops hurting. It’s not scary anymore. It’s actually kind of peaceful.”

Except, it doesn’t stop hurting. It’s still scary. It’s anything but peaceful.

Fine, maybe it’s _not_ like drowning.

What did Morrell call him again?

Hypervigilant. Having the persistent feeling of being under threat, jumpiness, anxiety, insomnia.

(A lot of things have changed since that day, but, well, some things never do.)

How much did she know back then? More than she let on, Stiles understands that now. Deaton and Morrell have a knack for not knowing exactly what’s going to happen, but still understanding more than Stiles ever will.

She knew what the situation was, though. And she knew how he was feeling, which was a lot more than he knew.

“If it’s about survival, isn’t a little agony worth it?” she asked.

“Yeah, but what if it just gets worse? What if it’s agony now, and then it’s just hell later on?”

He could laugh. Months have passed, people have died, moved away, moved back, turned into banshees and kitsunes and alphas and he still has the same questions. _How do you know that it’s worth it?_

“If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

Yeah, well Winston Churchill didn’t live in Beacon Hills.  But Stiles feels calmer than he has in a while when he blinks and he’s back in the room. The nogitsune tilts its head curiously at him.

_If the nogitsune got in, then there’s a door_ , he reasons. _There’s a way out._

_There’s a way out._

_Keep going._

 

He’s about to crash his Jeep into a tree on his way to rescue the parents from the Darach. He’s about to, but he never makes it.

Somebody’s screaming. And it sounds a lot like Lydia’s name.

He blinks his way out of the memory.

“What’s that?” Stiles can still hear it (it’s definitely Lydia’s name) echoing through the room. The nogitsune doesn’t answer him. It doesn’t react to the echo, just places another piece on the board.

He sighs. _This is pointless._ Stiles considers the rapidly filling board. Eventually, they’re both going to run out of moves. He’s relived most of the memorable moments of his life several times. It’s just wasting his time.

There has to be a move that it isn’t expecting. Something it wouldn’t think he would do. The nogitsune is looking somewhere off to its left, distracted. Stiles needs something to turn the game around.

Scott howls.

_Not real,_ Stiles tells himself automatically, like a mantra keeping him centered, already prepared for whatever memory he’s being sent into but…. He blinks and the Go board is still in front of him. He can still feel the nemeton underneath him.

_This is real._

He turns and it’s Scott and Lydia standing in the room, staring at him. Scott howled to get his attention like….

Like a knock on a door.

He turns back, looks at the nogitsune, then the Go board. 

_The game ends when neither player has any more profitable moves to make._

Well, he has at least one.

He throws his arms across the board before he can change his mind and the pieces scatter everywhere.

_I’m done playing_ , he thinks. 

This time when his vision goes fuzzy, he welcomes it.

 

 

 


End file.
